Surprising Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: What if John's father had split with his mother before he was born? What if he came looking for him now? A short addition to the HERITAGE series.
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. This is the seventh story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

What if John's father had split with his mother before he was born? What if he came looking for him now?

* * *

#

"I'm sorry, but have we met, Dr Watson?"

John looked at the other man, impatient to get after his flatmate, grateful that at least he was wearing clothing instead of just a sheet, but still … it wouldn't do to let Sherlock wander around Buckingham Palace unattended, would it?

Still, there was no need to be rude, and somebody should uphold 221B's honour, after all, shouldn't they? And so he said, "No, I don't think so, unless you've spent time in Afghanistan or come into the clinic with a cough lately."

But the other man was smiling, albeit with a slightly perplexed air. "No, I'm sure that's not it. You just remind me of someone."

John gave him a smile. "It happens to the best of us. Nice to meet you." And with a nod to the two men, he was off, chasing Sherlock down the hall.

He never noticed the intent look on David Brandon's face as he turned to Mycroft. Nor did he hear him ask, "What do you know about John Watson?"

#

John looked up as the doorbell rang and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been days since Irene Adler had tricked her phone back out of Sherlock, and the detective's sulk was reaching epic proportions. He could only hope that whoever was at the door would provide a much-needed distraction.

Which is why he admitted to some small disappointment when he saw David Brandon on their step with an older man. Wonderful. They were probably here to yell at Sherlock, or arrest him, and John would likely be caught in the crossfire as usual. "Mr Brandon," he said as politely as he could. "What brings you here? If it's about the phone…"

"Oh no, Dr Watson, this is something quite different," the taller man assured him. "Er … could we come in?"

"Oh, of course," John said backing away and holding the door and then leading the way up the stairs, hoping Sherlock hadn't trashed the flat any further in the three minutes he'd been at the door.

To his relief, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, now, gaze keen for the first time in days as he looked over their two guests, eyes flicking back to John. Right, thought John. He'd been standing at the window with the violin. He would have seen the arrivals and known John was bringing them up.

"Can I get you some tea?" John offered, wondering whether he should make himself scarce while they talked with Sherlock.

The older man spoke for the first time. "Tea would be welcome, Dr Watson."

John turned toward the kitchen, wondering if he should bother getting out the good tea, knowing that nothing he had to serve would be as good as the sublime brew he'd had at the palace. His only real regret about that entire fiasco had been that Sherlock hadn't let him stay long enough to finish the cuppa. "Please don't let me keep you."

"Actually, we're here to see you, Dr Watson."

John stopped in the doorway. "Me?"

He took a hesitant step toward the sitting room, glancing at Sherlock as he did so. Did his friend know what this was about? "So … no tea, then?"

David gave a smooth smile. "It's possible you might want something stronger."

The older man gave him a quelling look and then turned back to John. From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock sitting upright now, attention captured. Well, at least that was something good coming out of this meeting … whatever it was. He pulled over another chair and sat down. "So … what's this about, then?"

The grey-haired man was looking at him intently, now, which John ignored with the ease of someone who lived with Sherlock Holmes. He just wished he had a cuppa so there would be something to do with his hands while he waited for the man to find the words for whatever he wanted to say. He couldn't think of anything he'd done that would have attracted the attention of Buckingham Palace, not outside his connection to Sherlock Holmes. Because obviously this had something to do with the palace—or more precisely, meeting David Brandon at the palace, since he was now sitting here in John's flat with an older man who somehow looked familiar, though John couldn't think why. Something to do with Afghanistan, perhaps?

Really, he couldn't think of anything, which was why he was utterly floored when the older man finally opened his mouth. "May I ask your mother's name, Dr Watson?"

John could feel the hinge of his jaw open, pulling the muscles in his cheeks taut as about a hundred thoughts flew through his head. His mother? Why his mother? … Wait. Something with his mother, and the fact that this man looked vaguely familiar, and … the beginnings of a thought began to tickle at the back of his brain as he answered, "Tess. Tess D'Urberville Watson. Apparently my grandmother had a love for the classics as well as a sense of humour."

He was surprised … but also, somehow, _not_ … to see the older man nodding. "And your father?"

"I never knew my father," John said, irritation flaring. "Look, what is this about?"

"Does … does the name Jonathan Brandon mean anything to you, Dr Watson?"

The tickle in the back of his head changed to a firm click, but the rest of John's brain seemed to have turned to mud. Thick, glutinous mud, even as his head dipped into a nod. "That's my father's name. Why?"

"Amazing," David said, leaning forward in his chair, face earnest.

John had pulled his jaw back into line, now, setting it firmly into place as he responded, "What? Why?"

David's companion had an indescribable look on his face—a blend of hope and trepidation, disbelief and joy. He also looked as if he doubted his legs would hold him if he stood, so John wasn't surprised when he merely sat up straighter and said, "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jonathan Brandon, and I believe, Dr Watson, that I am your father."

#

Sherlock was almost amused by the look of shock on John's face at the man's pronouncement. The signs had all been there, after all. Not only all the genetic markers that practically screamed 'relation,' but the man's nervous-yet-eager body language, the fascinated disbelief as he watched John … it was obvious, surely? And then when his first question had been about John's mother? Well.

He and John had never spoken about childhoods at all (thankfully). Signs or not, he supposed John could be forgiven for not recognizing his own father if they'd never met … particularly if John had been led to believe the man was dead or had abandoned them. One can be excused for not recognizing a ghost risen before one, surely? Emotional shock and all that.

John was still blinking at the man as his brain tried to catch up with the startling news. "My father?"

The other man swallowed and then nodded. "Yes, I believe so."

"But that's not … how?"

The two of them were staring at each other, both having trouble finding words and assembling sentences. Sherlock glanced over at David, reading a satisfaction at being right, and then looked back at John and his father, fascinated. The resemblance could hardly be stronger as the two of them faced each other, identical expressions on their faces. John could almost be looking at a mirror image of himself in twenty years.

"What did your mother tell you, John?" Sherlock finally asked, "About your father?"

"Nothing, not even his name," John said. "She never answered any questions and I learned pretty young not to ask. I wondered, of course, and toyed with the idea of trying to find him ... you ... when I was a teenager, but … I figured if he wasn't interested in my, why should I return the favour? I never even knew the name until I joined the army and needed to show my birth certificate."

John's father was shaking his head, his face pained. "Dr Watson, she never told me about you. I swear…"

"It's okay," John said, and Sherlock was once again surprised at his friend's compassion. Even in this emotional moment, he was thinking about the other man's pain before his own. "If she wouldn't tell me, I have no trouble believing she didn't tell you either. Mum was … private that way."

"She's ... no longer with us?" Jonathan asked.

John shook his head. "She moved to Bermuda almost twenty years now—left shortly after I joined the army. She died in a hurricane a few years ago."

Jonathan was shaking his head now. "I … I don't know what to say. I hadn't expected…"

John just nodded. "Yeah. I …" He glanced over at Sherlock and then stood up. "I just … I'm going to make that tea now."

He retreated to the kitchen … and Sherlock could tell this was a retreat, a chance to regroup, not an abandonment of the field. John Watson was not so cowardly as to back from a fight. As he left, Sherlock watched the two Brandons exchanging looks, an outstretched hand for comfort. Interesting, he thought. They hadn't specified, but he suspected them to be uncle and nephew, but with a closer relationship than was the norm. Mycroft hadn't gone into detail when he introduced David at the palace, but, well, the man worked at Buckingham Palace, so there were connections there. Both men had well-tailored, bespoke suits, as well, and accents from the upper echelons. So, in the absence of a son, one might postulate that Jonathan Brandon had been in need of an heir, and his nephew had fulfilled that need. Was the fact that he was male an issue? There were some fortunes, some titles that could not be passed to women, but … well, without knowing if there were female relatives, there was not enough data to speculate.

John, though … if David had been raised as Jonathan's heir (for whatever reason), it spoke well of the man that he would bring attention to John when he found him. He gave credit to the man's observational skills, for recognizing John's similarities to his uncle. Since they had not known that John even existed, it was an impressive leap upon meeting a stranger to recognize the family connection. For him then to bring it to light … well, David was an honest man.

Sherlock observed the way Jonathan watched but tried not to watch John in the kitchen, soothing his frazzled nerves with the familiar act of making tea. The man could barely tear his eyes away, for which Sherlock could hardly blame him. Sherlock knew all too well what an unlooked for blessing John Watson could be.

There was a clatter of porcelain, then, as John came back, carrying a tray of tea things and resting it on the coffee table. Sherlock wasn't surprised at all when John's hand remained perfectly steady. Just before he poured, he looked over at the liquor tray and asked, "Anyone want a shot of whiskey in theirs? Because David was right about needing something stronger."

It was said with a smile—John's signature means of deflecting stress by using humour—but Sherlock detected an underlying strain. Apparently so did his father, because Jonathan accepted the offer and John fetched the bottle, pouring shots into two of the tea cups—a snub to years of British tea tradition, perhaps, but adequate treatment for shock.

After he'd settled with his cup, John looked straight at Jonathan. "So, Mum was far too nice with the secrets, obviously. I mean, clearly I knew I had a father somewhere—biological necessity, and all that—but she never told you that you had a son, either?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Not a word."

"I wish I could say that's not like her, but … Mum hoarded things, always did. I can picture her deciding to keep it quiet, the baby, in order to keep me to herself. If you had known and, I don't know, wanted to be involved…?"

"Oh, I would have," Jonathan said, voice earnest. "Please do believe me, Dr Watson, I would very much have wanted to…"

His voice broke then, and John just said kindly, "Call me John, since we're family, apparently." He gave Sherlock a questioning look.

Sherlock was looking between them and nodded. "I'm sure they'll want DNA tests, but there's no question. The resemblance is remarkable."

"That's what I thought, too," David said, "At the palace the other day. I couldn't think why you looked so familiar until I remembered this picture of my mother's, one of her and Uncle Jonathan when I was born. He would have been about your age then. I asked Mycroft if he could get me information about your parents and when he showed me your birth certificate with Uncle Jonathan's name…"

John was nodding, eyes wide. "Right. I think that naming me for him was the only thanks she'd ever give my father for, well, me. Because, Mum might have been a bit selfish, but she was a good mother. Fiercely independent, though, which shouldn't be a surprise. She was so young when she had me…"

"About twenty, yes?" asked Jonathan.

"Two months shy, yes. In some ways, it was fun having a mum so much younger than my friends. But I think that, once I was grown and in the army … she wanted some time for herself, a chance to reclaim some of that youth while she could."

"And so to Bermuda."

"Yeah."

There was silence for a few moments as they all sipped their tea in the classic British reaction to shocking news. Finally, Jonathan said, "So … if you only knew my name from your birth certificate … you don't know anything about me, do you? Or your family?"

John tipped his head. "I never really had a family. Just Mum. Her own parents had died when she was young, and since there was nothing coming from the other side … a boy can only wonder for so long before giving up. I made up lots of stories when I was a kid, of course. Dreaming that my dad was famous or rich. Make-believe that he was, oh, a lord who would come take me away to his castle…" He laughed, then. "Ironic that this all came out because of me being at Buckingham Palace and meeting, god, my _cousin_. I have a cousin."

Sherlock watched the other two looking uncomfortable with a sudden interest. They had been reasonably relaxed just a moment ago. What had John said?

Jonathan cleared his throat. "It's … interesting … that you say that, John. Your imagining your father was rich or … an earl, because…"

John's eyes had gotten even wider now as all traces of amusement drained from his face. "No."

David nodded. "I'm afraid so. Dr John Watson, may I introduce Lord Jonathan Brandon, Earl of Undershaw."

#

TBC

#

* * *

NOTE: I've had this unfinished story sitting on my hard-drive for about two years now. Real life (like losing the Chappy who gave me my screen-name four months ago) got in the way of giving it the attention it deserved, and it's never going to be explored any further than it is right now ... But, that said, it seemed a shame to not do something with it. So, I took the two existing chapters and added a third just to bring it to a conclusion. It won't be long-only three chapters-but it will be complete. I promise I won't leave you hanging. (Unfinished stories nagging at me is one thing; unfinished ones nagging at the rest of you-that's just cruel.)


	2. Chapter 2

John couldn't help staring. This had to be a joke. An Earl? The long-lost father he'd barely even heard of was an _Earl_? He looked at Sherlock—did his mad flatmate have anything to do with this? Could he confirm it? Because, really, what the hell was going on here?

Sherlock looked slightly surprised, but not as much as John was. (Well, of course. Was Sherlock ever as surprised as John about anything?)

Finally, staring at the other two men, John said, "That's not possible."

"I assure you, Dr Watson, it is."

"An Earl?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Did my mother know?"

Jonathan shook his head. "No … or at least not to my knowledge. I never told her. … I suppose we were both good with secrets."

"I suppose so," John said, agreeing absently even as he was reeling. In ten minutes, he'd gained not only a father but … "Wait, so if you're an Earl and I'm your son…?"

The other man smiled gently at the horrified look on his face. "You're next in line. I'm afraid so, yes. Our title is old enough to be hereditary. It's really not as bad as it seems, you know."

John thought back to all the days when his mother had tried to figure out how to make ends meet, scrimping to make sure there was money for rent, shorting herself to make sure he had enough to eat. And all that time, his father had been an _earl_? Or maybe in line to be an earl, but still … not exactly poor.

"So, all this time …?"

"I've had a son I never knew about," said Jonathan. "One it seems I should be very proud of."

John blinked. "Really? I mean, that's very kind of you, but I'm not … I mean, I'm just a retired army surgeon."

"A doctor who served the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers until he was shot in Afghanistan and sent home with honours," Jonathan said in a firm tone, as if chastising him for speaking poorly of himself. "And then, instead of resting on your laurels, you continued to aid the public good by helping catch criminals—in addition to still practicing medicine whenever you can. It seems to me that you are a man who has dedicated his life to helping others, despite personal hardship. What's not to be proud of?"

John was speechless. He didn't think anyone had ever spoken about him like that. It wasn't that he wasn't proud of his accomplishments—because he was. He just wasn't used to anyone else actually, well, _noticing_. Sherlock may have identified him as a former army doctor the moment he met him, but he'd never actually indicated that was a good thing. Useful at a crime scene from time to time, yes, and handy for patching up bumps and bruises from the chase, but … laudable? Worth praising? It had never come up. So far as he knew, Sherlock considered John's first choice of career to have been a waste of time except for having given John exactly the sort of training that made him useful to Sherlock and The Work.

He didn't know what expression was on his face, but David (his cousin, David, he had a cousin) was looking amused. "Not to mention his ability to keep up with Sherlock Holmes—a task at which many have failed."

John was even more astonished when the amused baritone of his flatmate said, "True."

He was beginning to wish someone would just pinch him because he was starting to think this was some great cosmic prank—except who would bother for him? It certainly wasn't Moriarty's style, even if the man had ever considered John more important than just Sherlock's pet. And Mycroft? John didn't think Mycroft had more than a nodding acquaintance with humour.

And meanwhile, John was still staring, not quite able to assemble any of the words circling his brain into anything resembling sentences.

Wonderful. They would all think he was an idiot. It occurred to him that he was the only one there not wearing a bespoke suit, the only one without a public school accent. Not that these things worried him. The army had shown him the importance of action over rank, appearance, or words. He knew he was a capable man. (Except for those dark weeks after losing his career and his future to an Afghani bullet, he had always known that.) He'd suffered self-doubt then, yes, but he had never considered that loss to be his own fault. His sense of self had been torn away with the muscle and blood left behind in the Afghan sands, and if he'd needed help from the very unexpected Sherlock Holmes to rediscover the core of John Watson? Well, he wasn't the only returning soldier to have needed help.

No, his difficulty now was that he was being confronted with the knowledge that he wasn't the man he'd always thought he was—and not in the usual sense that he was suddenly discovering himself to be somehow less than what he'd formerly believed. (Although, if half his blood line came from an earl, only making it to Captain before being ignominiously shot suddenly didn't seem such an achievement.) But … he hadn't spent all these months with Sherlock Holmes to be intimidated by men in sharp suits. He just … he suddenly was realizing how different his life might have been had he always known his father.

"Right," he finally said, far too practical to dwell on what ifs. "So, I've got a father. And a cousin. What other branches of the family tree have I been missing?"

He tried to pay attention as the two visitors began to talk about siblings and spouses and children, but after the fifth or so name, his eyes began to glaze. He simply wasn't used to thinking about "family" in the plural.

Luckily, the two men didn't stay much longer. Jonathan made a point of saying he could see John needed time to absorb this, that he knew it was a lot to take in. John didn't miss the hopeful look on his face, though, when he said he would see him soon.

After all these years, apparently he had a father.

#

The street door was barely closed when John turned to Sherlock. "You didn't know about this, did you?"

"What? John, I am really quite good at my chosen profession, but even I can't examine your DNA merely by looking at you."

"No," John said, agreeing wearily, "I suppose not. But … what are the odds that David and I would meet—at Buckingham Palace, of all places? Do you think Mycroft knew? Maybe he'd met Jonathan and noticed the resemblance?"

"Knowing Mycroft, it's irritatingly likely. He does so love to meddle," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Since he made sure you were present for the meeting yesterday, I'd say it is probable."

"Yeah." John collapsed into his chair as his legs suddenly stopped working. "Christ, Sherlock. I've got a father."

"Everyone does, John," he responded drily, but his eyes were warm. "Most of us grow up in proximity, though, so their arrival isn't quite as much of a shock."

John ran his hand over his head. "Shock is the word. Mum never told me anything about him ... nothing!"

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but (miraculously) restrained himself ... for about twenty seconds. "He did say she didn't know about the title."

"No, that's true. _That's_ something she probably would have mentioned ... or maybe she wouldn't have. She was fiercely independent, my Mum. She never even went after child support, but still. I can't imagine she wouldn't have passed this information on if she'd known. Say, when I joined the army?"

"Good luck, son," Sherlock said, his baritone hidden in an overly sweet falsetto. "Raising you has been exhausting, so I'm heading off for the pink beaches, but if you run into any trouble, you can ask your father—he's an Earl. Ta ta! And, don't get shot!"

"See? How hard would that have been?" John gave his head a weary shake. "Christ, I wish she were still alive."

"Look at the bright side, John. You have a parent again—and this one isn't in control of your allowance."

"Or my curfew, which is lucky for you, with the hours we keep." John leaned his head back against the chair, and the two sat silently for a few minutes, then, "An _earl_ , Sherlock. How is that possible?"

"Well, John, they're human beings just like the rest of us. When an Earl loves a woman very, very much ..."

John snorted. "Please, for God's sake, don't try to explain the biology to me, Sherlock. Just ... how did they even meet? I mean, don't get me wrong, my mother was a remarkable woman, but she wasn't exactly a society girl. For an Earl—or the son of an Earl, I suppose—to have been interested enough to date her ...?"

"Did they date?" Sherlock asked, hands steepled under his chin. "Or was it a one-night-stand?"

"Christ," John murmured. "Because that would be so much more comforting ..."

"People are people, John," Sherlock said. "Luckily for you, some are more interesting than others."

"My illegitimate birth is interesting, is it?"

"Your father was raised to be an Earl, John, and the Brandons have a reputation of being mostly upright and decent, so ... I can only imagine the attraction was quite strong. It could be marked up to youthful spirits, but then she kept your existence to herself. Yes, I find that fascinating."

John slouched further down in his chair. "I'm so glad I could provide you with entertainment."

"That's hardly new, John. Haven't you noticed by now? You're one of the most interesting people I know—and I can't tell you how gratifying it is that you keep finding new ways to surprise me."

"Cheers," mumbled John.

#

"Just keep applying ice at regular intervals," John said as he marked the chart. "It'll be fine in a couple days."

"Thank you, Dr Watson," his patient said, cradling her sprained wrist against her. "I still can't believe I was so stupid."

"You're not the first to trip over a cat, Mrs Matthews. Just ... maybe get a nightlight so this doesn't happen again?"

She sighed. "Yeah, and no catnip for him for a while, either. He's just lucky I can still open his food."

"That's what he gets for hurting the hand that feeds him," John said. "If it's not improved by the end of the week, let us know."

He ushered her out the door and turned back to his paperwork. His never-ending paperwork. He'd become a doctor to help people, but sometimes it felt like the only ones he was supporting were the paper manufacturers. How could one small clinic generate so much bloody paperwork?

There was a tap at his door and he looked up in surprise. He wasn't expecting another patient yet, was he?

"Dr Watson?"

To his surprise, the person who came in the door was his father—quite possibly the last person he expected to see.

"Mr. Brandon ... I mean, Lord? Er ..." He trailed off, completely unsure how to continue. What was he supposed to call this man? As if it weren't complicated enough discovering a father at his age, but for him to be a peer of the realm? What exactly was the etiquette here?

Luckily, the man was chuckling. "Why don't we start with Jonathan? It's clearly too soon for anything else, but it's just wrong for you to use my title."

"Agreed," John said with relief. "How can I help you? I'm guessing you don't need my medical expertise ..."

"I'm sure you're an excellent doctor, but no. In the pink of health. I was actually hoping you'd be free for lunch?"

John blinked.

"You _do_ eat, don't you?" Jonathan asked with a smile.

"I do," John said. "I'm just not used to people remembering that. I usually just grab a sandwich at my desk. Let me just check with Mary about any other appointments."

To his surprise, Jonathan was grinning. "I already did that, if you'll forgive the high-handedness. You've got an hour."

John matched the smile with one of his own. "Then, let's go."

#

* * *

NOTE: I'm so happy everyone is so excited for this story, short though it is. And thanks for the condolences-Chappy was my 14-year, 9-month old Boykin Spaniel and I still can't believe he's no longer here. The last couple years have been rough in a number of ways, but losing him sort of caps it all off.

Anyway, one chapter to go!


	3. Chapter 3

John was surprised that an Earl would be willing to perch on a plastic chair at the coffee shop around the corner from his clinic, but Jonathan was either unusually casual for a Lord, or was working at being agreeable.

"I know I didn't give you much notice," he said, "but I couldn't help myself. I know you need time to absorb all of this, and even though I didn't have much, I did at least have some notice, but still ..."

"You're curious," John said. "I understand that ... I live with Sherlock Holmes, who has practically unlimited curiosity when he's interested in something, and no recognition of boundaries or schedules. I'm just grateful you waited until lunch."

"I was taught manners rather vigorously," Jonathan told him. "Although I am, in fact, very curious."

John watched the other man's face still, and rethinking his statement, added, "I am, too."

"You are?"

"I've only wondered about you my entire life," John said with a shrug, trying to make light of it. He didn't miss the way Jonathan's shoulders lost their erect posture at his statement. It wasn't his father's fault that John's mother had kept his existence a secret—from both of them. "I mean, I do know it's not your fault. It's just that there are so many ..."

"Missed opportunities."

"Yeah," said John. "It's not like I haven't imagined what my father would be ... and to find out you're an Earl? Almost as good as the prince I imagined when I was eight."

"In this day and age, a prince would have been unlikely," his father said. "They're much more carefully watched than the rest of us."

"So I've seen. Not much room for sowing wild oats ... last week's case notwithstanding."

"I want you to know that I didn't consider your mother like that. That is, I know it looks like I just left, but ..." The Earl's voice trailed off, and John winced in sympathy.

"I think we can just ... move on from there, shall we? You didn't know. She didn't know. Nobody meant to hurt anybody, and I knew less than anybody. The point is that we're here now."

"Very pragmatic, Dr Watson."

"Please, I asked you to call me John, remember?" John was almost desperate to try to find some familiar ground in this quagmire of a conversation.

"When you start calling me Jonathan."

"Right. That's not awkward at all. Jonathan." John swallowed a nervous laugh. "So ... David said you read my blog?"

A nod. "It's fascinating. You've lived an amazing life, I hope you realize that."

John nodded right back. "I do, most days. Some days are more frustrating than others, and I wouldn't want to revisit the weeks after being shot again, but ... yeah. I like to think I've done some good. I've kept out of trouble, at least. If you'd known me as a teenager, you'd appreciate that accomplishment for what it is."

"I can imagine. It might have been better for you, growing up away from family responsibilities—you had a chance to branch out and prosper in ways that would otherwise have been curtailed."

"Living under a microscope would have been hard when I was a kid," John said. "I had a bit of a temper, and could barely sit still when Mum dragged me to church. My manners were never as good as she wanted them to be."

"They seem fine now, though."

"Army discipline did wonders for my self-control, even if they didn't exactly add polish."

"And now you work with Sherlock Holmes."

John grinned. "Also not helping with the manners, but it's certainly broadening my social circle." John shrugged. "Anyway, I'm a doctor. I don't work with Sherlock, I just help out when I can."

"I told you, I read the blog. You very definitely do more than help out."

"I like to be useful."

"Now _that_ is a family trait," Jonathan told him with a grin of his own.

At John's raised eyebrows, Jonathan began telling stories of himself as a young man, of his father, and the expectations he'd grown up with. He told about his one chance at throwing off the inherited restrictions, and how he met John's mother. "We would have been happy, for a while," he said with a reminiscent smile. "We _were_ happy. But in the end, it wouldn't have worked. Your mother was far too independent and would have chafed under the restrictions of an Earl's wife."

"She would," agreed John. "But she was never seriously involved with anyone else, not that I ever saw. She dated from time to time, and had friends to go out with, but there was never anyone else. I think she loved you. It's one of the reasons she wouldn't talk about you."

They were silent for a few moments, and then Jonathan asked, "What are you doing for Christmas?"

#

"I don't know about this," John said, pulling at his tunic.

"You should wear your uniform more often," his father told him, a gleam in his eye. "I'm just sorry your grandfather isn't here. He would have been proud."

"I don't know—grandson of an Earl. He would have been disappointed I didn't get higher than Captain."

"Nonsense," Jonathan said. "And I'm sure you would have if you had you not been ... shot."

John looked up as his father's voice caught. "It's okay, you know. I'm right here."

A shaky laugh. "I know—but it so easily could have gone the other way, and I never would have known ..."

"That goes both ways, you know. If this hadn't come out, someday I would have seen your obituary in the em _Times_ /em, and never realized ..." John's voice trailed off, too, so he forced a laugh. "This is not a holiday kind of conversation."

Jonathan gave his head a shake. "You're right. I'm just glad you're here this year."

John resisted the temptation to tug at his tight collar. "I hope David feels the same way. I feel like I'm stealing his spotlight. You both always expected him to be your heir, and now you're stuck with me."

"Nonsense. If he felt that way, he wouldn't have said anything when he recognized you—though David is far too honourable. He would never have taken a title that wasn't his."

"Sure, you say that now," John said, voice teasing, "but just wait until he realizes how very unqualified I am."

"Stop saying that. Much like Sherlock's brother, your cousin is happier working behind the scenes. He would have taken on the duties as head of house if he'd needed to, but he'll be happier without that responsibility."

Now John laughed. "And you think that I'm the right front man for the family? I just trot along behind London's most obnoxious Consulting Detective. Nobody is going to take me seriously."

"You were an army surgeon, John. Don't expect me to believe you can't give orders and take charge when you need to."

"Well, yes, but ..."

"And of course, if people only see your modest public face, they'll miss the steel underneath. Surely you know the benefit of being underestimated?"

"He thrives on it."

They both turned to find Sherlock in the doorway, elegant as ever in his bespoke suit.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock," John said, giving one last tug to his uniform before turning away from the mirror.

"Oh, please, John. You're a modest man, yes, but let's not overdo it. False modesty does not become you. I can think of any number of times when being overlooked turned out to your advantage."

John shrugged. "Maybe, but being seen also got me shot and strapped into a Semtex vest, so forgive me if I'm not eager to step into the limelight."

Sherlock waved his hand. "You'll be fine. So far as the general public is concerned, you'll just be the public face. You can leave all the work to your cousin. If he's anything like Mycroft, he'll thrive on it."

John turned at Jonathan's chuckle. "See? Your friend knows what he's talking about. It's good to see you again, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please, my lord."

"Oh, heavens, Jonathan, please. You're best friend and flatmate to my son. No need to be formal—besides, I hear from your brother that it's not your strong suit."

John snorted. "That's an understatement."

"Yes, thank you for your input, John," Sherlock said with a snap.

Now Jonathan was laughing. "You two are going to be refreshing, I can tell. Now, it's almost time. I've kept you a secret, John, so you have to wait a bit until I introduce you."

"And watch my back for daggers when you make the announcement?" John asked wryly.

"I'm sure Sherlock can do that for you," Jonathan said. "But meanwhile, you'll be pleased to know that I have something for you."

"For me?"

"That's right." Jonathan walked to his desk and pulled out a present.

"Jonathan, you didn't have to..."

"Didn't have to get my newfound son a present for Christmas? Really, John." He shook his head with feigned disappointment. "Open it."

Carefully tearing at the paper, John found a picture frame. His hand tremoring like it hadn't in months, he turned it over to see the photo.

Smiling up from the frame was his mother, looking younger and happier than he had ever seen her. To her side, arm draped over her shoulder, was a similarly young Jonathan. It was obviously a casual photo, but the fact of its existence ...

"Where did you get this?"

"I went digging through a box of odds and ends from my carefree youth, of course," Jonathan said. "I know I told you that your mother and I were never as serious as you would expect considering, well, the fact of your existence, but I still cared for her a great deal. While I'd forgotten about this picture, there's a reason I kept it."

Sherlock was studying the photo. "There's no question that you are related to both of these people, John. That, plus your birth certificate .. not to mention the necessary DNA test ... does prove your claim to the title."

"Claim? Ha! I'm not trying to _claim_ anything," John said with a laugh. "I'm being shanghaied."

"If that makes you feel better," Jonathan laughed. "Now, I'm going out to make my speech. Keep your ears open for your entrance—I'm looking forward to it. The expressions on some of my least favourite relatives are going to be highly entertaining."

He gave one last look at John. "And don't worry, son. I barely know you, and I'm already very proud of you. Introducing you is my very great pleasure."

#

Jonathan stood on the stairs, glass in hand, looking down at the assembled guests. This Christmas party was a long-standing tradition that predated his own father, but there had been no question that his father had adored it. This was the first year Jonathan was playing host and all he could think was how much he missed his father.

He just wished the old man could have been here for this.

Lifting his glass, he cleared his throat. "May I have your attention?"

The murmuring and rustling subsided as all the faces turned toward him.

"This is the first Christmas without my dear father, David Brandon. He had a long life, making it to 90 before he left us, but he loved this holiday and it's not possible to celebrate without raising a glass to him."

Jonathan lifted his and toasted his father, trying not to think about how much he would have loved what was coming next. "There's an old saying about how God doesn't close a door without opening a window, and so I have an announcement."

He tried not to grin at the eager way everyone's attention sharpened, focused on him.

"I received a surprising phone call from David a fortnight ago. You all know David as a responsible, hard-working, honourable man, of course. But when he rang up to tell me that there was someone that I simply had to meet, I suspected him of trying to set me up on a blind date. Thought he was bored trying to amuse the old man and wanted me out of his hair."

He could almost hear the speculation that he was marrying again now.

"It turns out, though, that if anything, David was trying to skip out on me," he told the crowd, and watched their anticipation turn to confusion. "In the course of his duties at the palace, David had met someone ... No, no. Don't let your thoughts stray. He is still just as happily married as ever."

"No, the person David met was a former Army Captain, an RAMC surgeon who served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers until he was shot in the line of duty and forcefully retired. Since then, in addition to working in one of Her Majesty's medical clinics, he has taken up helping to solve crimes with his flatmate. You might have heard of them—Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson."

He watched as recognition passed over at least some of the faces turned his way. "Why am I interested in Dr Watson, you want to know?"

He nodded over their heads to David, ready by a laptop. At a keystroke, the projector lit and an enlarged version of the picture Jonathan had given John appeared on the wall by his head.

"It's an old picture, but you might recognize the young fellow on the right. I've aged a bit since then, of course," he told them. "The woman with me? Her name was Tess D'Urberville Watson, a woman named for one of literature's most tragic heroines, and one well able to keep her own secrets."

Another nod, and the picture changed to one John had provided—18-year-old John in his army uniform, arm draped over his mother's shoulders.

After a pause, there was another blink of dark transition and then the two pictures showed side by side. It was the same woman in both, but two different young men—men with the same colour hair, with the same smile beaming into the lens.

Jonathan gave them all a moment to absorb what they were seeing.

"Like I said, Tess was good with secrets. She never told me about her son, and she never told him about his father. Though to be fair, I'd never told her about this inherited title of mine, either, so I suppose we were both close with our secrets. She never knew that she'd raised a boy next in line for an Earldom ... but she did."

He took a breath, face determined.

"It's almost forty years late for a birth announcement, but ... I'd like to introduce you to my son. John?"

He turned up the stairs and there was John in his uniform, looking both competent and nervous. Jonathan grinned at him, though. He very much looked like a soldier facing the enemy, and Jonathan had to remind himself that his son (his em _son_ /em) was not used to addressing crowds. He laid his hand on John's shoulder, though, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Don't let them intimidate you—after the Taliban and the Holmes brothers, the Brandon family should be easy."

John nodded, straightening his shoulders with barely a wince at the bad one, as Jonathan stepped back.

"Yes, you heard that correctly," John told the guests. "No-one was more surprised than I was when David and Jonathan stopped by Baker Street to tell me I was the long-lost son of an Earl. In fact, I blame David entirely for being far too observant when we met. I'm used to that from Sherlock Holmes, but as he likes to say, people usually see but they don't observe."

He was steadying, Jonathan could see, settling in to his speech.

"I can't blame David too much, though," John said. "He spent his whole life expecting to be the next Earl of Undershaw, and while I can't say for sure that he was willing to take any escape he could, he decided to do the honourable thing and drop the whole thing in my lap, despite my serious lack of qualifications."

Jonathan wasn't going to let that slide, and stepped forward. "Although, John here was an army surgeon in actual battle conditions. He can command army soldiers when they're wounded, in pain, and at their most difficult. He keeps a level head under fire, and is just the kind of man you want at your side in an emergency ... and to read the papers, that sounds like daily life with Sherlock Holmes."

He smiled down at his guests, happy to stand at John's side as they traced the resemblance in their features.

"Don't let John's modesty fool you. He might not have been raised to be a Peer, but he is more than qualified for the job. And before you ask, yes, I've seen his birth certificate and, yes, we have had a DNA test done. He's the real deal, and I couldn't be happier—not only to discover that I have a son, but that he is as accomplished a man as John Watson."

He lifted his glass again. "Please help me welcome my son to the family. John Hamish Watson ... Brandon!

#

John stood by the fireplace, exhausted and grateful to have found a peaceful corner. He would almost rather face another attack by Afghani insurgents than more nosy queries from his new-found family.

Not that he hadn't been welcomed. He had been. But he couldn't help feeling like an intruder.

It had helped that David had stood at his shoulder for much of this, being urbane and charming, shrugging off any suggestions that John had poached his position. "Don't be silly, it's a relief," he had said again and again. "Sending a soldier into the House of Lords to represent the family is the smartest thing we've done in a long time."

Sherlock had been a reassuring presence, as well. John didn't think he had ever seen him display such impeccable manners for such a long period of time before, and could only be grateful that Sherlock was on his best behaviour.

John had only been half-surprised to see Mycroft at one point, looking smugly satisfied at the revelations. "Did you know?" John asked.

"I'm sure I don't know of what you are speaking, John," Mycroft had said. "If Lord Undershaw himself didn't know, how would I?"

"Because you're Mycroft Holmes," John answered.

"That doesn't mean I know everything," Mycroft said, but John knew that cagey look and just raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I suppose that I might have noticed a family resemblance," he finally admitted, "but I promise I did not know more than that. I'm not psychic, John."

John snorted. "Please. As if you would allow yourself to be anything so illogical."

"Indeed."

Mycroft had given a frosty smile before taking himself off, and frankly, John was tired of this entire thing. All he wanted was to go sit someplace not surrounded by nosy strangers-cum-family for a while. He wasn't a shy man, or one unused to adversity, but ... it was easier facing villains with bomb vests and sniper rifles than the unending curiosity of people with nothing better to do than ask intrusive questions.

For a moment, he could understand why Sherlock had so little patience with them.

Still ... it had been a nice night. The food had been excellent, and the company—not counting the curiosity-seekers—pleasant. He found that his father was wry and witty and altogether good company, as was David in his urbane way.

The challenges of knowing he was next in line to be Earl were daunting, but somehow, he thought he might just enjoy it.

A waiter came by with a tray and John took one of the mince pies. Probably not as good as his Mum's, God rest her, but being staggeringly polite was exhausting.

Watching the family mingling, Jonathan holding court by the fireplace, John smiled. It would be good to have a family again.

Lifting the pastry to his mouth, he took a bite and froze.

This was the best mince pie he had ever had in his life.

Really, this might not be so terrible after all.

#

THE END


End file.
